Telltale Games' Game of Thrones: Iron from Ice
by TheGeorgieB
Summary: In this original story based on the Telltale Games episodic video game, we explore what might have been had Lord Ethan Forrester survived the events of Iron From Ice. Lord Ethan Forrester is alive, but how is this possible, and what does it have to do with the mysterious North Grove? Also, how will this affect the impending war between the Forresters and the Whitehills?
1. Chapter I: The North Grove

**Chapter I: The North Grove**

Duncan Tuttle departed the castle at twilight, the gloom obscuring his movements through the Ironwood. In the distance, he heard the howl of a Direwolf; the Autumn winds sweeping up the sound and carrying it to Duncan's ears.

He scuttled between tree trunks and hopped over streams, the extra weight of the corpse he carried in his arms preventing him from moving with much of any haste.

He had wrapped the body of the deceased Lord Ethan in a garment of silk which was now wet with the young Forrester boy's blood. Following Lord Ramsay Snow's leaving, Duncan had offered the grieving Lady Elissa to bury her son in the Ironwood, where he and his siblings had spent so many happier days of their childhood; the childhood that had been cut so tremendously short by the War of the Five Kings.

However, the former Castellan of Ironrath had no intention of burying the little Lord.

Not this night.

_I only hope that I am not too late_, Duncan thought, pushing through tree branches and immersing himself further and further into the dark mists of the Ironwood. _House Forrester has lost enough good men in this senseless war as it is. I shall not let it lose another._

By the time he'd finished climbing the following hill, the sheer exhaustion had brought him to his knees. He felt as though he'd been running for hours. _I'm far from the man I'd been in my youth_, the weariness made him realise.

Before him, the trees had opened up to reveal complete darkness. Duncan pressed his head against Ethan's and whispered a prayer to the Old Gods of the Forest; the only Gods in his eyes.

Seconds passed, and the clouds parted to reveal the moon; a shining beacon in an ocean of black. When Duncan saw the reflection of the moon in a pool mere feet ahead of him, he knew he had arrived. _The North Grove_, he thought. _Praise the Gods_.

The North Grove, and the powers it beheld, were mere legend amongst House Forrester. Only Duncan and a handful of others, the late Lord Gregor Forrester being amongst them, knew that there was any truth to this legend.

_The North Grove must never be lost_. Those had been Gregor the Good's dying words. Now, and only now, did Duncan Tuttle understand why.

Carrying Ethan's body in his arms, Duncan approached the pool. Looking down at his reflection, he was struck by the transparency of the water. It gave away no hints of dirt, moss or grime, as though something was keeping it cleansed. That was when he also noticed the steam rising from the pool.

Steeping into the spring, the hot water filled his fur boots. With Winter so imminent, Duncan suspected the spring's waters were remained heated by some force of magic. But that was all it was: a suspicion.

By the time he'd trundled to the centre of the spring, Duncan was up to his waist in warm waters. He lied the body on the surface of the pool and unwrapped the layer of silk he had dressed it in until it was exposed to the warm waters of the North Grove.

After throwing the bloody silk aside, Duncan took handfuls of spring water and drizzled it gently across Lord Ethan's face. The spring water trickled down the boy's cheeks like hot tears.

"Please, my lord," Duncan pleaded as he sprinkled hot water across the young Lord's face. "Please, come back to us."

Lord Ethan's body remained as stiff and cold as it had been when Duncan had taken it from Ironrath's hall. There was no life left within the boy.

Duncan bowed his head and closed his eyes. He began to whisper another prayer to the Old Gods of the Forest. They had been kind to Duncan earlier when they had shown him the path to the North Grove, perhaps they would be as kind to him now and would, through the power of the spring's enchanted waters, restore life to the dead boy.

Duncan Tuttle opened his eyes. Seconds later, Lord Ethan did so too.

END OF CHAPTER ONE.

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	2. Chapter II: The Secret Lord of Ironrath

**Chapter II: The Secret Lord of Ironrath**

Ironrath was in flames.

Stood before the castle, Ethan could hear the cries and wails of the men, women and children it had been his sworn duty to protect. He tried to step forward, but a cold hand on his shoulder forced him back. He turned around to be greeted by a pale man with eyes like chips of ice.

Ramsay Snow wore the sadistic smile of a maniac. He laughed heartily as he wielded a blade from his scabbard and drove it into Ethan's throat. The Lord of Ironrath tried to curse the bastard son of Roose Bolton, but the curses became nothing more than indecipherable gargles as Ethan choked on his own blood.

Ethan awoke from the fever dream screaming.

Clutching his sheets, Ethan found himself in a cold, damp cell, sweating through his tunic. The cell was submerged in darkness. There was no window, no bed, only a heap of hay that reeked of piss for him to lie on. He raised his hands to his neck, searching in the dark until he found the scar left by Ramsay's blade.

That was when Ethan heard the oak door creak as Duncan Tuttle stepped into the cell, a lit chamberstick in his hand; the only light in the darkness of the room. "You must try to be quiet," Duncan whispered as he sealed the door behind him, making as little noise as possible as he did so.

The former Castellan of Ironrath approached the hay pile where Ethan had slept, the light of the candle revealing his weary and tired face, as though the man had just suffered through a Winter spanning decades. He was dressed in a nightgown, suggesting that Ethan's screams had awoken him from a long-awaited sleep.

"What did you do to me?" Ethan asked, still brushing his fingers up and down his scar, unwilling to believe that any of this was real, and convinced that he was still living in another fever dream.

"I saved your life," Duncan told him. His eyes narrowed when he noticed Ethan stroking the scar on his neck. "I suppose you're wondering how you walked away from your encounter with Roose Bolton's bastard with nothing but a nasty scar?"

"I'm wondering how I walked away at all," Ethan answered. He saw Duncan grin, but now was not the time for jesting. "How am I still here after that maniac drove a blade into my throat?"

Duncan sighed. He set the chamberstick down on the cobblestone floor in the furthest corner, revealing the red stone walls of the cell. He picked up a wooden chair from the corner, placed it opposite Ethan, and took a seat from across from the boy. "The North Grove," was all he said.

Ethan was not unfamiliar with the name. As he was growing up, Ethan often heard whispers of a grove far north in the Ironwood; a place that was said could only be found if the Old Gods of the Forest allowed it. Many claimed that the North Grove was once a home to the Children of the Forest and that, despite being dead and gone for thousands of years, some of their magic still remains. "The North Grove is of myth and legend. You speak of a fairy tale," Ethan dispelled.

"Does what's happening here in Ironrath sound like a fairy tale?" Duncan asked, referring to the recent feud with House Whitehill, and the many lives it had cost. Ethan bowed his head, thinking of his father, and of Rodrik. "I thought not," Duncan said.

Duncan stood up from his chair and began to pace from one side of the tiny cell to the other, his hands behind his back. The sternness of his face suggested to Ethan that what he was about to say pleased him very little. "'The North Grove must never be lost,'" he said, the words slipping seamlessly off his with such ease, as though they'd been echoing in his mind for years. "Those were your father's dying words." He turned to Ethan from across the cell. "Now I know why."

Ethan sat up from his bed, needing to make sense of the riddles Duncan was speaking in. "These tales... they spoke of pools of healing, of dead men brought back to life by the North Grove's waters," Ethan recalled. He had enjoyed such tales growing up as a boy. Now, he was living one of them. "I suppose the fact that I'm alive alone proves the North Grove to be more than just another folk tale."

"You're alive because there must always be a Lord of Ironrath," Duncan said, his arms crossed. "And because the Old Gods answered our prayers."

"But why save me?" Ethan asked. "Why not take my father to the North Grove, or Rodrik?"

"Because the Old Gods chose you," Duncan answered, approaching Ethan. "There was no time to save your father or brother." He paused. "I was too late." The regret was visible in his eyes. "But the Old Gods made an exception for you. You are obviously meant for great things, my lord."

The formality set Ethan's teeth on edge. "I am not your lord," he snapped in a tone more aggressive than he'd intended. "The rest of the North thinks me dead. The title has been passed down to Ryon." That was when Ethan was reminded of his brother, whom he had last seen being dragged away by Ramsay Snow and his men. "Ryon! Where is he?" He remembered the sigil of House Bolton: a flayed man, and began to fear the worst.

"Our men last saw him on horseback. He was riding with Ramsay Snow and men of House Whitehill and Bolton." Duncan stroke his beard, as he always did when he was thinking. "Our men chose not to intercept the host. They were too far outnumbered, and feared than an attack would only put Ryon in danger."

This, Ethan failed to understand. "My brother is a prisoner of the Boltons, a house that is infamous for the flaying of their enemies. Not to mention, he is a prisoner of _Ramsay Snow_, the most feared and unpredictable of all of House Bolton. In what way is he not _already_ in danger?"

"You said it yourself," Duncan replied. "As far as the North is concerned, Lord Ethan Forrester is dead, making Ryon the new Lord of Ironrath. Ramsay Snow may be a maniac, but even he wouldn't throw away the only claim the Bolton's have to Ironrath. Control of Ironrath means access to our Ironwood, something the King is relying on the Bolton's to secure."

Ethan began to feel dread. He liked very little where this conversation was headed. "So, what you're saying is, as long as Ironrath and the rest of the North believe that I'm dead, Ryon will not be harmed."

"That is so, my lord."

Now it all made sense. "That's why you brought me down here, under Ironrath to this rotten pit. To hide me." _I'm his secret Lord of Ironrath_, Ethan thought. "Is there truly no one that can be allowed know? No one you can trust with the knowledge that I am alive?"

"Not unless you want your brother to suffer greatly, my lord," Duncan answered.

_He still calls me lord_, Ethan thought. Duncan had always been a man of honour. He recognised Ethan as the rightful Lord of Ironrath, and refused to call him otherwise.

"My Mother must know. And my sister," he demanded. "I cannot allow them to mourn for me. I _won't_ allow it. If I am truly still your Lord, then I command you: please, free them from their grief."

Duncan sighed. After a final stroke of his beard, he turned back to Ethan and nodded begrudgingly. "I will return tomorrow with your Mother, we will decide then whether to also involve your sister. You must understand that by letting them in on this secret, your family will be placed in an enormous amount of danger. Ironrath is now crawling with men loyal to Ludd Whitehill. There's only one thing that would make him angrier than the reappearance of the true Lord of Ironrath, and that's learning that he had help."

Ethan watched as the former Castellan picked up his chamberstick and approached the door. "Before you go," he called after him, "just tell me one thing. Tell me why you brought me back."

"I already told you," Duncan said before looking over his shoulder, meeting Ethan's gaze. "There must always be a Lord of Ironrath." He swung open the door and stepped into the hallway, taking the light with him.

Ethan heard the oak door slam shut, and welcomed absolute darkness as an old friend.

END OF CHAPTER TWO.

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**New chapters every week! In next week's chapter, Ryon discovers just how dangerous Ramsay Snow really is when their host encounters a disturbance in the Wolfswood.**

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**-George**


	3. Chapter III: Through the Wolfswood

**Chapter III: Through the Wolfswood**

Ryon Forrester could no longer feel his toes by the time Lord Ramsay Snow finally signalled for the host to stop.

"You wish to rest for a moment, my lord?" Asked Lord Ludd Whitehill, who rode beside Lord Ramsay atop a black stallion.

Lord Ramsay ignored the question. "Have your men prepare a feast," he commanded, climbing off his horse as he did so. "I wish to make camp here overnight. We shall return to our course to Whitehill at the light of dawn."

With haste, a squire had appeared at Ryon's side to lift him from the white mare he was perched upon, and lower him to the ground. As Lord Ludd barked commands at his men, Ryon could feel Ramsay's icy stare upon him. The bastard approached, placing a cold hand on Ryon's shoulder.

"I look forward to showing you a _true_ feast, my lord," Ramsay said as he guided Ryon through the Wolfswood. Men of House Whitehill and Bolton rushed past them to begin pitching tents and building campfires. "You look as though you've never eaten a proper meal in your lifetime," he commented. "I promise you, my lord, you've never tasted meat finer than that of slow-roasted boar."

"I am not a lord," Ryon assured Ramsay as they passed two men of House Bolton raising a flagpole. Flapping in the wind, the flag boasted the House sigil of a flayed man.

"Why, of course you are," Ramsay told him. "You were heir to House Forrester when your brother ruled, but now 'Brave Lord Ethan' is dead, making you the new Lord of Ironrath."

_My brother is dead_, Ryon thought. _Murdered by a psychopath_. "Are you going to kill me too?"

Ramsay gave a childish giggle. "Why, you _are_ a candid little lord, aren't you?" He replied between chuckles. "No, I'm not going to kill you. You're of no use to me dead," he assured Ryon, patting him on the back as he did so. "As a matter of fact, it is of great importance to me that not a soul lays a hand on you," he explained as they approached Lord Ludd, who drank form a horn of ale in front of a roasting campfire.

"How comes our feast, Lord Whitehill?" Ramsay asked as he warmed his hands over the fire. Ryon did the same.

"I have sent two of my finest huntsmen to kill a deer for tonight's feast," the Lord of Whitehill replied. "Tonight, we will dine on the finest venison."

Ramsay was displeased. "But Lord Ryon does not want venison," he said, steeping towards Lord Ludd, his eyes like chips of ice. "Lord Ryon wants boar, and if you're still wish for a share for his precious Ironwood, I _suggest_ you do not disappoint him."

Ludd was bemused. "But, Lord Snow, there's no-"

"Do not dishonour me with that title," Ramsay snapped, slapping the horn of ale out of Lord Ludd's hand as he did so. "You will address me as Lord _Ramsay_, and that alone."

"I beg your pardon, Lord Ramsay. I did not mean to offend," Ludd replied with utmost sincerity. "But, with Winter so fast approaching, our men would struggle to find any wild boar out here in the Wolfswood. However, my men claim to have spotted several deer as we made our way through-"

"Let me put it this way, Lord Whitehill," Ramsay interrupted. "Your men can either bring me a boar for our feast, or you can bring me both their heads."

Ryon watched as Lord Whitehill gulped, then nodded. "As you wish, my lord." He disappeared across the campsite to share Lord Ramsay's commands.

"You are Lord of Ironrath," Ramsay reminded him. "If House Whitehill wish for a share of your Ironwood, you must not allow them to treat you with disrespect." He placed his hand back over Ryon's shoulder. "Walk with me," he commanded Ryon. The young Lord of Ironrath did not disobey.

They left the campsite to join a narrow footpath that led through the Wolfswood. Ramsay, a torch in his hand, led the way as they trekked through the darkness.

"Do you know what it takes to be a good Lord?" Ramsay asked.

Ryon took a moment to think. He remembered his father, whom they'd called 'Gregor the Good'. He remembered his eldest brother, Rodrik, who had fought so fiercely for their House. He remember Ethan, and how much he'd suffered under the weight of the responsibility of protecting Ironrath. Now, his father, Rodrik and Ethan were dead. All of them had died protecting their House. "It takes bravery," Ryon finally answered.

"Bravery," Ramsay repeated, seeming pleased with the answer. "And why is that?"

"Because, you have to be willing to do whatever it takes to protect your House from your enemies, no matter the cost," Ryon replied.

"So are you?" Ramsay asked.

Ryon opened his mouth to answer when he heard a twig snap in the distance. The sound of splintering wood echoed across the wood. Ramsay drew his sword from his sheath, causing Ryon to reach for his own.

Ryon found his wooden sword, 'Two Brothers', in the scabbard at his waist, which he'd made himself out of boiled leather. "What was that?" Ryon asked.

"Enemies," Ramsay answered with a whisper. "Show yourself!" The bastard yelled into the dark.

"We're unarmed," a gravelly voice replied from afar.

Ryon clutched Two Brothers in his sword hand as, out of the darkness, two shapes emerged. As they stepped closer, their features became more clear in the light of Ramsay's torch. The voice belonged to a man. He wore a soiled tunic and was, as he'd said, unarmed. By his side was a woman, also in rags. She remained close to her husband's side, looking petrified.

"Who are you?" Ramsay asked in a cold, raspy voice.

"My names is Bjorn," the man answered, bowing his head as he did. "This is my wife Lysa."

Ryon watched as Ramsay took small steps towards the smallfolk. "You seem lost," he uttered.

"We were on our way from Ironrath," the man named Bjorn revealed. "Been looking for an inn named The Golden Crown. Must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. It's very dark, you see."

Ramsay turned to Ryon, a wide grin spread across his face. "Did you heard that, my lord?" He asked. "These two are from _Ironrath_."

Ryon felt the gaze of the two smallfolk upon him. "You," the man uttered. "You're Ryon Forrester."

Ramsay nodded. "He is." He raised his sword, pointing the tip of the blade to Bjorn's neck. "You would do well to address him as 'Lord' Ryon."

"Please," the woman named Lysa begged. "Don't hurt us." They were the first words she'd spoken.

"Do you know who I am?" Ramsay asked, ready to open the man's throat.

"You're Lord Ramsay," Bjorn answered. "Son of Roose Bolton, the Warden of the North."

Ramsay was pleased. "What brings you so far from Ironrath?" He questioned. "You're not deserters, are you?"

"No," Bjorn assured him. He turned to Ryon, terror in his eyes. "Please, Lord Ryon, we're not no deserters. We only wished to get away from the war and the bloodshed; to be somewhere safe until this feud with House Whitehill is over."

Between Lysa's feet, Ramsay spotted a sack, its contents bulging. He sliced it with his sword, causing vegetables and bread rolls to come pouring out of it. "Stealing from a House and leaving them die," Ramsay said. "What are you if not deserters?"

Bjorn gulped and Lysa begged, but Ramsay refused to hear it. He turned to Ryon and offered him the hilt of his sword. "Theft is a crime, and a crime must be punished," he declared.

Ryon looked at the sword, the moon reflected in the castle-forged steel. He shook his head.

"Ryon, these people betrayed the trust of your House," Ramsay reminded him. "They are disloyal. Traitors. They _must_ be punished."

"Not like this," Ryon replied.

Ramsay sighed. "Very well." With a flick of his wrist, he had opened Bjorn's throat. Blood gushed down his tunic, and the man dropped to the floor, his body limp. The woman named Lysa began to scream, but Ramsay quickly put a stop to her wailing when he drove his sword through her belly, nailing her to the tree behind.

"I suppose that answers my question," Ramsay said as he used one of the woman's rags to wipe her blood from his sword. "You're not willing to do what it takes to protect your House."

Ramsay knelt to Ryon's height and gave him a reassuring pat on the back. "Not yet," he whispered.

END OF CHAPTER THREE

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**In the next chapter, we return to Ironrath, where the small council discuss how to tackle their feud with House Whitehill.**

**-George**


	4. Chapter IV: The Small Council

**Chapter IV: The Small Council**

She sat at the head of the table, joined by the small council in its entirety, as feeble as it may have been to look upon.

Currently, the council counted no more than three members, with Duncan Tuttle yet to make his appearance. They hosted their meeting, as they always did, in the great hall, undisturbed.

From the foot of the table, Maester Ortengryn read reports from his parchments. Lady Elissa, however, was too busy looking at the portrait of House Forrester that sat upon the wall. She counted all of the family members in that picture. _Nine_, she counted. Then, the members that still remained in Ironrath. _Two_. Only herself and her second-born daughter, Talia, remained safe behind the walls of the castle. Lord Gregor, her dead husband, and Rodrik, her first-born son, were both dead; slaughtered by the Freys during what the rest of Westeros had taken to calling 'The Red Wedding'. Her second-born son, Asher, was an exile. The last she'd heard, he had been making a living as a sellsword in Essos. But, these desperate times had called for desperate measures, and recently Lady Elissa had instructed her brother, Malcolm, to find Asher and escort him home. Mira, her first-born daughter, was serving as a handmaiden to Lady Margaery Tyrell, as were Elissa's wishes. But her duties had recently taken Mira to King's Landing, a thought that troubled her deeply. And now, Lord Ethan, her third-born son, was dead too; slain by the bastard Ramsay Snow in this very hall.

From across the oak table, Maester Ortengryn continued to read. "Although these deserters have not yet been identified, we do know for certain that they made off with an entire week's worth of produce; carrots, potatoes, bread, all stolen from one of the smallfolk with his _own _family to feed."

"May the Old Gods curse them," Ser Royland spat from beside Lady Elissa. "If war _should_ ever come to Ironrath, the smallfolk are going to need every bit of produce that they can harvest. It's deserters such as these that cause families to starve to death in these times."

"I fear Ser Royland may be right," Maester Ortengryn continued. "What's more is that the knowledge of townsfolk deserting Ironrath will cause others to lose faith in House Forrester. The community and the trust Lord Gregor worked so hard to build when he was alive will crumble, and Ironrath will soon find itself in turmoil." He turned to Lady Elissa. "Did you hear me, my lady?"

The Master-at-Arms caught her off-guard. "Yes," she lied. "Yes, I heard you."

Noticing the troubled look on her face, Maester Ortengryn attempted to change the subject. "Moving on," he said, unrolling a piece of parchment. "We have received a raven from our scouts in the Wolfswood. They report that Gryff Whitehill is but a day's ride from Ironrath."

_Dark wings, dark words_, thought Lady Elissa as she listened to the Maester. "How many men does he ride with?" Ser Royland asked from where he sat beside her.

"Our scouts reported no more than twenty men, my lady," Maester Ortengryn replied, "As were Lord Ramsay's instructions."

Lady Elissa had summoned the small council in anticipation of Gryff Whitehill's arrival. For the past hour, their debating over how to tackle the arrival of the son of Ludd Whitehill had been echoing across Ironrath's great hall. The last time they had welcomed a member of House Whitehill into Ironrath, Lord Ethan, her own son, had been slaughtered in front of her very eyes. She refused to let that happen again. _This time we will be ready_, she thought.

"We cannot let the Whitehills back into our Castle," Ser Royland argued. "The last time we did, our own Lord Ethan was murdered, and Lord Ryon taken as a hostage."

"I remember well enough the fate of my sons," Lady Elissa assured Ser Royland. "You need not remind me."

"Of course, my lady," Ser Royland said. "I beg your pardon."

Maester Ortengryn spoke with hesitation, as though it was his desire not to upset Lady Elissa. "I'm afraid we have little choice but to welcome House Whitehill into Ironrath," he insisted. He spoke truly, Lady Elissa knew. House Whitehill had the soldiers and the resources to take the castle and its Ironwood by force if they were required to, whereas House Forrester possessed neither to defend their castle with. Not to mention, the Whitehill had the power of House Bolton backing them. "Lord Ramsay's terms were quite clear. House Forrester may remain in possession of half of the Ironwood. That is, on the condition that House Whitehill be allowed to place no less than twenty men within the walls of Ironrath," Maester Ortengryn recalled. "A _temporary_ condition, of course."

Ser Royland scoffed beside her. "You speak as though Lord Ramsay was generous in offering us half of the Ironwood," the Master-at-Arms suggested. "Do not forget, Maester, that the Ironwood is our birthright. That bastard had no right to take it from us in the first place. He'll be damned if he thinks he can negotiate something that has been a part of this family for thousands of years."

"I have not forgotten the importance of the Ironwood to this House," the Maester assured him. "I am simply reminding you that this 'bastard' is the natural son of Roose Bolton who, as you well know, is Warden of the North and loyal to His Grace, King Joffrey." The Maester spoke of the boy King in a manner which Lady Elissa could not deicide suggested respect or, more likely, fear. "His Grace has already taken the lives of hundreds of northerners for their resistance and unwillingness to bend the knee, branding them all as traitors. Considering all of the loses it has already had to suffer through – Lord Gregor, Lord Rodrik, Lord Ethan – the last thing House Forrester needs is to make enemies out of the one true King."

"The _one true_ King?" Ser Royland questioned, aghast. "You speak of a bastard born of incest!"

"Be that as it may, he is our King," Maester Ortengryn reminded Ser Royland. "Should we refuse to bend the knee, this family will end up just like the Starks."

The thought made Lady Elissa shiver. The Starks had been friends. Now, nothing of the House remained. "We also cannot allow ourselves to forget about Ryon," she insisted from the head of the table. "The Whitehills hold my son as a hostage. Should we choose to meet them with swords and spears when they arrive at our castle on the morrow, Lord Whitehill will be displeased." She paused. "The Seven only know what they'll do to that boy if we show them any resistance whatsoever."

"They won't harm a hair on the little lord's head," a voice bellowed from down the hall. Looking over her shoulder, Lady Elissa spotted Duncan Tuttle marching down the hall.

"And how can you possibly expect to know that?" Ser Royland demanded to know. He and the former Castellan of Ironrath shared a rivalry like no other. Quite frankly, their arguments often reduced Ser Royland and Duncan to bickering children, and they came to resemble Lady Elissa's sons when they had shared scraps as toddlers. Too often, Lady Elissa felt as though she was sharing this council table with toddlers.

"With his elder brother dead at the hands of the bastard Lord Ramsay," Duncan began, taking a seat opposite Ser Royland, "Ryon is now Lord of Ironrath." The former Castellan wore a stern look on his old, tired face. As much as she knew he angered Ser Royland, it was reassuring to her to see someone taking this matter seriously. "The Whitehills and the Boltons would not forsake their only claim to Ironrath. Having Ryon in their custody allows them unlimited access to the Ironwood; an opportunity they wouldn't dare throw away."

"There are still other ways they can hurt that boy," Ser Royland reminded Duncan and the others.

"The Maester spoke truly when he said that the Whitehills and the Boltons are now loyal to the King," Duncan insisted. "The King, though he may be but a child born of incest, would not let any harm come to that child, and even a House as savage as the Boltons would not dare betray the wishes of the King."

"You underestimate the Boltons," Ser Royland assured Duncan. "Need I remind you of the sigil they boast on their flags; a dead man, flayed from head to toe. Should we refuse to fight back, how long do you think it will be before our favourite bastard Lord Ramsay grows bored with his new ward and decides to start cutting-"

"Enough," Lady Elissa interrupted with a loud bellow that shook the room, and seemed to surprise the entire small council. She stood up from her chair at the head of the table. "I have heard all I need," she decided. "Ser Royland, I ask that you leave us."

Ser Royland was taken aback. "With all due respect, my lady, before he died, Lord Ethan named _me_ his sentinel," he reminded her. "I speak only with the deceased lord's best interests in mind."

"I have not forgotten of the title my son honoured you with," Lady Elissa assured him, "but your presence here has caused a great disturbance. I beg that you leave us for today."

With a scoff and a shake of his head, Ser Royland stood up from his chair, the oak creaking against the wooden floorboard below. The small council remained silent until the Master-at-Arms had reached the giant oak doors that led into the courtyard, and slammed them behind him.

"Apologies, my lady," begged Duncan from beside Lady Elissa as she retook her seat. "I did not intend for my arrival to so easily antagonise the Master-at-Arms."

"No apology is required, Duncan," Lady Elissa told him. "Ser Royland has a short temper, so much is well known. But do not forget: my son died on his watch," she reminded Duncan. "I would not be surprised if the man blames himself for Lord Ethan's death." She could not blame the Master-at-Arms for feeling that way. Lady Elissa herself could not sleep but to think of ways she might have prevented her son's murder. "I must ask what caused you such a delay in making it to this meeting. I sent for all of the small council, including yourself. Did you not receive my message?"

"No, I received your message, m'lady," Duncan assured her. He looked across the table, spotting Maester Ortengryn, who sat tending to his books, then leaned closer to Lady Elissa. "If I may, it is something I must ask that we discuss in private."

Lady Elissa nodded, respecting the wishes of the former Castellan. "Leave us," she asked of the Maester, who bowed and left the table without question, carrying his books under his arm. She heard his Maester's chain rattling all the way to the door.

"I must ask that you follow me down to the cells beneath the castle," Duncan asked of her. "It is something I would prefer to _show_ you. These walls have ears, you must understand."

She nodded accordingly. "Of course." She had known Duncan for many years, and trusted her not only with the lives of her husband and her children, but with her own as well.

The former Castellan led her down a narrow set of stone steps, the path lit by the torch in Duncan's hands. It was the only beacon of light in the dungeon that had otherwise been lost to absolute darkness. She feared what would happen if a gust of wind extinguished the flame and left them stranded in the dark. For as long as she could remember, Elissa had been afraid of the dark.

When the steps finally ended, Duncan lead her left and right through what appeared to be a maze of stone walls; one she had barely known existed. Finally, they came to an oak door. It was lacking the thick layer of dust that was so accustomed to the many other doors she'd spotted throughout the dungeon, suggesting this one has been opened very recently.

"You may wish to take a breath, m'lady," Duncan warned her before he unsealed the oak door and swung it open, revealing the passageway to a small, damp room, inside of which a tall shape moved mysteriously.

Lady Elissa's eyes narrowed as she tried to identify the shape inside.

"Mother," it called, the voice so young and soft. It was a voice she so very well knew.

From the darkness, he emerged.

"My son," Lady Elissa croaked, almost certain that her eyes were deceiving her. She threw her arms around Ethan and held him tight. When she felt his warm breath against her, and his soft cheek on hers, she knew she could not possibly be dreaming. "My son," she said again, kissing his forehead.

"We have much to discuss," Duncan assured her from behind. "The fate of Ironrath, and of the whole of House Forrester, hangs in the balance."

Lady Elissa had wrapped her arms around her son, tears streaming from her eyes as she whispered promises that she would never let him go again.

And, with that, no longer was Lady Elissa afraid of the dark.

* * *

><p>END OF CHAPTER FOUR.<p>

**Phew! I may have gone over my usual word count a little bit this time, but I hope you enjoyed this newest chapter regardless of the length!**

**Huge thanks to everyone who has posted their reviews of the story so far. If you haven't already, feel free to share your thoughts or ask some questions in a review below; your feedback goes a long way and is very much appreciated.**

**Also, don't forget that you can stay up to date with new chapters by following/favoriting this story. Alternatively, you can follow/favorite me specifically as an author here on , if you'd do me the greatest of honors! :)**

**In the next chapter, plots are hatched to reclaim Ironrath from House Whitehill, whilst a deadly secret is revealed; one that could reshape the future of House Forrester forever.**

**I'm really glad you guys are enjoying this original story so far. It may have kicked off with a fairly slow start, but events are about to be set in motion that will affect the lives of our favourite characters in enormous ways, as some new contenders enter the greatest game of all: The Game of Thrones!**

**See you next time.**

**-George**


	5. Chapter V: Ethan the Brave

**Chapter V: Ethan the Brave**

"Lord Gryff Whitehill is but a day's ride from Ironrath," Ethan reminded his visitors, pacing from one side of the dark, damp cell to the other. "We have not nearly enough men to hope to defend this castle. Not only that, but his father, Lord Ludd Whitehill, holds my brother as a hostage." He ceased his pacing. "I cannot say that the odds are much in our favour."

Duncan Tuttle stepped froward from one corner of the cell, joining Lady Elissa at her side. The cell was empty but for the three of them, their voices echoing through the open doorway and across the dungeon. He held a torch in his hand, the flame licking the ceiling. "Lord Ethan," he began. "Lady Elissa and I come here bearing this news so that we may hear the commands of the true Lord of Ironrath." He paused. "That be you."

"For the reasons of which I just reminded you, we have little choice but to welcome Lord Whitehill into our home," Ethan commanded. "Ser Royland may still seek justice for my death, but he remains ignorant to the knowledge that I am in fact alive."

That was when Lady Elissa stepped forward and placed a warm hand on her son's arm. "Which brings us to the other matter," she said softly, stroking Ethan's shoulder, as though she was still coming to terms with her son being alive. "Duncan and I believe that, for the time being, it would be best for knowledge of your survival to remain between the two of us." She bowed her head, the words paining her as much as they did Ethan.

Ethan's lips quivered. "I understand," he assured them. "And as much as I respect your judgement, I would have to advise against this idea."

"My lord, you must understand-" Duncan began, but was promptly interrupted by Ethan.

"Do not try to tell me that, by keeping me locked away down here, you mean to protect Ryon," he snapped. "My brother is a prisoner of Ramsay Snow, the bastard lord that murdered me under my own roof." Ethan bowed his head. "What chance do you really think there is that he would let Ryon live? That is, if he is even still alive at all."

"My lord, if I may," Duncan protested. "Lord Snow would not dare harm your brother. As far as the bastard is concerned, Ryon is the rightful lord of Ironrath."

"As was _I_ when Lord Snow drove a blade through my throat, but that didn't stop him then, and it won't stop him now," Ethan reminded him. "Please, Duncan, spare me your lies. You only wish to keep me locked away here because, were anyone in Ironrath to see me alive, they would know that all those legends they'd heard about the North Grove were in fact true."

Ethan's words had silenced the former Castellan and, for a long time, the only sound that could be heard in that cell was the torchlight burning.

"'The North Grove must never be lost'," Duncan finally spoke, breaking the silence. "Those were your father's dying words," he reminded Ethan. "With all due respect, my lord, I intend to fulfil Lord Gregor's last wish, and nothing, not even you, can prevent me from doing so."

Ethan had turned a shade of red in his frustration. "Get out," he snapped, his voice shaking.

Duncan Tuttle did as he commanded. After passing the torch to Lady Elissa, and offering Ethan a final bow, he marched out of the cell, sealing the oak door behind him. Ethan heard his footsteps echoing all the way to the end of the hall until the dungeon fell silent once more.

"You must understand," Lady Elissa began, still clutching her son by the arm, "it is Duncan's responsibility not to let the North Grove fall into the wrong hands." She clasped Ethan's hand. "The North Grove is capable of wonders. It brought you back to me. But, there are those that would seek to manipulate its magic, and use it as a weapon." She paused. "These are dark and desperate times, as you well know."

Ethan pulled away from his mother and returned to pacing up and down the cell. "I can't stay down here forever," he assured her. "I have a castle to rule – people to protect."

"We must respect your father's wishes," Lady Elissa told her son, "whether I like them or not." She approached her son and placed a hand on his cheek. "Not to mention, you're far more safe down here than you are out there, and the Seven only know how much I wish you to be safe. I promise you, as soon as Ironrath belongs to House Forrester again, you can return to your people, but no sooner. For now, we simply cannot take the risk."

Ethan stroked his mother's hand. "I understand," he finally said, "but I cannot allow Talia to continue to grieve for me in vain. You must send her to me," he ordered.

Ethan watched his mother begin to smile. "You always were a stubborn little lord," she said, "just like your father." She nodded in agreement before kissing her son on the cheek. "I'll tell her everything tonight, but I'm afraid she cannot be allowed to see you."

Ethan nodded. "I understand," he agreed reluctantly. He stood back and watched as his mother approached the oak door. It creaked as he pulled it open before looking over her shoulder and smiling at her son.

"You should know," she began, "the townsfolk often speak of your courage the night Lord Snow came to Ironrath. The way you refused to let him take Talia away." She paused. "They call you 'Ethan the Brave'," she told him.

Ethan smiled back at his mother and watched as she disappeared down the hall, taking the light with her. Stood in the dark, Ethan felt proud. He wondered if, even now, the men and women of Ironrath were still telling stories and singing songs of his bravery above him.

_My father was 'Gregor the Good' and I am 'Ethan the Brave'_, he thought to himself.

The thoughts continued as Ethan lowered himself to the cobbled stone floor below. A great tiredness overcame him like a mountain on his shoulders. Soon enough, his eyes were closing and the lord's snores were echoing through the dungeon.

He was unsure of how many hours had passed – one could not tell the difference between day and night in that dammed cell – but Ethan later awoke to the sound of the oak door's creak.

Through the dark, Ethan spotted a tiny light flickering in the dark. Out of the darkness, a figure emerged, holding a lit chamberstick in their hand. "Ethan?" He heard a familiar voice whisper.

Talia wore a blue silk dress that fell to her ankles, her auburn hair tied behind her ears with single wisps of hair dangling in front of her eyes. She was more beautiful than Ethan had been able to remember, like an angel emerging out of the mist of darkness.

As she came closer, Ethan could see that her eyes were red. She had been crying.

"Talia," was all he could bring himself to say. She knelt before him, her eyes wide as though she could scarcely believe what they were showing her. She set the chamberstick down, the candlelight flickering in the dark, then leaned in to kiss Ethan on the lips.

Ethan could taste the salt of her tears when they touched lips. After a few seconds, she pulled away. "I can't believe it's really you," she uttered as Ethan placed his hands on her cheeks. She smiled when she felt how warm and alive they were. Ethan pulled her to him, and the two locked lips once again. Talia massaged his tongue as he stroked her cheeks. When they came apart again, Talia said "I've missed you so much," then reached down to unbutton his tunic.

That was when Ethan pushed her away. "We can't," he told her. "Not here." He turned away from his twin sister, uncertain that he could look her in the eye. "Talia," he began but struggled to finish. "I'm so sorry for putting you through this."

Talia shook her head and grabbed Ethan's soft cheek. "I don't care about any of that right now," she assured him. "All I care about is _us_."

They kissed again. He knew it was wrong, that he should have ordered her to stop, but he didn't. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back.

"I have something for you," Talia told him when they came apart again. She shot up and darted back out the door, returning shortly with some kind of instrument in her hand.

"My Lute!" Ethan exclaimed as Talia lowered the wooden instrument into his hands. Before long, he was strumming the chords to _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_, with Talia watching and smiling as she rested her head on his shoulder, her hands around his arm. "Thank you, Talia," he said to his sister before pecking her lightly on the lips.

"You're welcome," she replied. "What do you say? Do you reckon we could get away with just one song?" She asked.

"Nothing would make me happier," Ethan told her as he tuned the lute.

They spent the night together in that dark and damp cell, Ethan playing the lute as his sister sang the words. For those few hours, the two children had not a care in the world. There was no war, no bloodshed; not a single reason to fret or fear. For that night only, the two Forresters were in a world of their own; a world where nothing and no one could come between them.

Morning came too soon.

* * *

><p>END OF CHAPTER FIVE.<p>

**Okay, so there's something that could divide readers a little bit. Let me know your thoughts on the twist below. A part of me is thinking it might be a little bit controversial amongst some of you. Just remember that this is purely fan-fiction. In times like these, when I divert from the original story and introduce my own spins on the story, it's always because it's necessary to where I want the plot to go. This is one piece of a much larger plan I have for the story, which I really think you guys will enjoy once things start kicking off within the next few chapters, so I hope you guys continue to stick with it.**

**As always, you guys can follow/favourite to keep up with new chapters, or share your thoughts in a review below, which I strongly encourage. I want to know what you guys think, good or bad! :)**

**Also, have a very Merry Christmas, and I'll see you all next week for another new chapter!**

**-George**


	6. Chapter VI: The Heir to House Whitehill

**Chapter VI: The heir to House Whitehill**

The first thing that struck him about Gryff Whitehill was the way he walked. The Heir of House Whitehill strode across the Great Hall in a manner that reeked of arrogance and self-importance, leaving Duncan Tuttle less than impressed.

Duncan awaited Lord Gryff from across the Great Hall as he and Lady Elissa exchanged pleasantries. They shook hands, Lord Gryff bowed, and Lady Elissa smiled, but a mutual feeling of hatred was still blatantly apparent between them.

"Lady Elissa," Lord Gryff said warmly, offering a toothy smile. "I trust you will fulfil the promise you made to my father and introduce me to the Ironwood you Forresters are so renown for."

Lady Elissa was most displeased. "I fear I have very little choice in the matter," she replied. "You will find Duncan Tuttle, our Castellan, most helpful in that regard."

"If it's for your son, Lord Ryon, that you fear for, I assure you that the young lord is very much in safe hands with my father," Lord Gryff promised her.

"It's not your father I'm worried about," Lady Elissa assured him. Thought neither of them spoke his name outright, they were both aware that she had in fact been referring to Lord Ramsay Snow, the bastard son of Roose Bolton, who currently held Lord Ryon as a ward. "If you'll excuse me, I have many other matters requiring my attention," she said before gesturing towards Duncan. "Duncan will teach you and your men everything there is to know and more about our Ironwood," she finished before turning her back on Lord Gryff and disappearing down an adjacent corridor.

Duncan watched her leave, wondering if she was heading into the dungeons to pay another visit to her son. Ethan had been without a visitor for almost a whole day and night. Duncan feared the isolation would be enough to turn the lord mad.

"Ser Duncan, I presume?" Asked Lord Gryff, extending his hand.

Gryff was of a small build, Duncan noticed, but the boy seemed to wear a heavy armour with steel plates to conceal his weak physique. His hair was a flurry of ginger curls, and Duncan spotted freckles across his soft face. The boy was clean shaven. Either that, or he wasn't yet of an age to grow facial hair. He wore a friendly smile, which reassured Duncan, until he remembered how Lord Ramsay had also smiled, all the way until drove a blade through Lord Ethan's throat.

"Just _Duncan_, if you please, Lord Whitehill," Duncan said, offering Gryff his hand. "I'm afraid I am yet to receive the honour of Knighthood."

"You surprise me," Lord Gryff complimented as he shook the Castellan's hand. "I am told that you can familiarise me with this Ironwood of yours."

"Indeed, my lord," Duncan said as he gestured towards the rear oak door. "If you would follow me, I shall lead you through the Ironwood to where our finest craftsmen are currently harvesting wood to craft the strongest shields for the Crown. As was promised by Lord Ethan before his... demise."

"Ah, yes," Lord Gryff muttered as they marched through the courtyard, men of House Whitehill following from the rear, "it was a great shame what became of the young lord. A great shame, indeed."

"One, I feel, could have been so easily avoided," Duncan said, leading Lord Gryff past smallfolk with baskets of vegetables under their arms and sacks of wheat and flour on top of their heads.

"Indeed, if only Lord Ethan could have kept his mouth shut," Lord Gryff remarked.

_Not exactly what I meant to say_, Duncan thought but chose not to say. One wrong move and he feared he would end up just like Lord Ethan. Lord Gryff, however, seemed far more likely to cooperate than the bastard Ramsay. He appeared so much more civil; capable of doing business.

They spent the rest of the journey in silence. Duncan took a path similar to the one he had taken when carrying Lord Ethan to the North Grove on the night of his murder. About half a mile from the North Grove, however, Duncan took a sharp turn left, unwilling to risk stumbling upon the North Grove whilst Gryff Whitehill and his men were in his company.

When they reached the section of the Ironwood Duncan had spoken of, they found half a dozen craftsmen waiting for them, each one sweating profusely as they drove their axes into the strong wooden flesh of the Ironwood trees. Some of the men would take a break every so often to drink from wine skins, keeping their strength up, whilst others refused to part from their work.

"Here it is, my lord, as you requested," Duncan said, proudly presenting his team of hard working craftsmen to Lord Gryff. "As you can see, our men already have most of this area covered, so if you wished to move – say – a dozen of your twenty men into the Ironwood, I would advise assigning them somewhere further East, that way you can make sure that-"

"I think you'll find that we'll be taking over the entire Ironwood," Lord Gryff assured him.

Duncan was bewildered. "But, my lord, Lord Ramsay assured us that only _half_ of the Ironwood would be given to House Whitehill. I was there when your father agreed to these terms."

"I don't care what my father agreed to," Lord Gryff responded, "that fat oaf would agree to marry a farm pig if Lord Ramsay told him to. He's a frightened, weak old man."

"Or perhaps he's just smart," Duncan suggested. "There's no way House Forrester will allow you to take the Ironwood from them. It's their birthright. Their namesake!" He leaned closer to lord Gryff, who stared back at him with cold eyes. "Are you really foolish enough to risk going to war over a bunch of trees?"

Lord Gryff chuckled. "My friend, we both know this isn't about trees," he said, words that concerned Duncan formidably. He signalled to his men behind him, who proceeded by approaching the craftsmen. They handed their axes to the men of House Whitehill, who continued hacking at the trees for them, and the Forrester craftsmen went peacefully on their way.

"Then what is this about?" Duncan asked.

"The North Grove," Lord Gryff answered, sending a chill down Duncan's spine.

Lord Gryff smiled as he stepped back from Duncan, who was still taken aback, and gripped the blade in his scabbard. "And if you try to stop me, I can't promise that Lord Ryon won't meet a similar fate as his brother."

"You would never kill the boy," Duncan said. "If you did, you'd lose your only claim to this Ironwood."

"You speak truly, my friend," Lord Gryff agreed. "The Boltons and the Whitehill are far above killing Lord Ryon. However, if you think there's anything stopping them from finding other methods of torture, it is _you_ who is the real fool."

"You would never-"

"Do not underestimate Lord Ramsay, my friend," Lord Gryff warned. "If the bastard does decide to carry out even half of his threats, I assure you: young Lord Ryon will be begging to die."

Duncan's heart sank. He turned to watch the men of House Whitehill hacking at the trees. "Remove your men from this place," he ordered. "The men of House Forrester and the only _true_ craftsmen here. Your men will never be capable of crafting weaponry fit for the Crown."

Lord Gryff sighed. "I suppose this is where you and I are just going to have to agree to disagree."

Duncan turned back to Lord Gryff. Noticing the smug smile on his face, he began to realise that negotiating with the lord was a surely futile attempt. "Step aside, I wish to speak to Lady Elissa."

"To say what?" Lord Gryff asked, chuckling. "You are no Lord, you're not even a Ser, why would the Lady Elissa wish to hear anything you have to say?"

Duncan's eyes narrowed. He jabbed a fleshy finger in Lord Gryff's chest. "I believe she'll be most interested in knowing that you're only interest here is in the North Grove. I don't know what you plan on doing with it – that is, if you ever _were_ to find it – but I'm sure Lady Elissa would _never_ approve. As a matter of fact, she'd have you banished from this castle before you and your men could ever set your eyes upon it."

Lord Gryff sighed again. "I suppose I only have myself to blame for letting you in on my little secret," he admitted. "Perhaps if I'd played this out differently we'd all be friends sharing wine at the dinner table by now."

Duncan shoved Lord Gryff aside and marched past him.

Lord Gryff wielded his blade.

"Alas, some friendships just aren't meant to be," Gryff uttered.

Duncan was still marching when he felt an arm being wrapped around his neck, like a Snake constricting its pray, and a cold breath against his ear.

For a man of such a small build, Lord Gryff was surprisingly strong.

"Such a shame," Lord Gryff whispered in Duncan's ear. "I'm sure you would only have been a couple of years away from a Knighthood."

Wrestling against Lord Gryff's grip, Duncan stared up at the top of the trees and the sky above them. He was so captivated by the beauty of the Ironwood, he didn't notice the blade until its steel was at his neck.

Lord Gryff sliced, he and his men laughing as he did so.

The steel blade's bite was red and cold.

* * *

><p>END OF CHAPTER SIX.<p>

**Whoa.**

**Okay, so possibly another controversial chapter. But let me know what you guys thought in a REVIEW! Was great to hear all of your thoughts on last week's chapter, so please keep on commenting below!**

**Hope all you guys had a great Christmas!**

**As always, don't forget to FOLLOW/FAVOURITE this story for updates on new chapters.**

**In the next chapter, Maester Ortengryn divises a plan that could result in Ironrath being reclaimed by House Forrester, but it won't come without a cost.**

**See you next year for a new chapter! (it's not as far away as it sounds) ;)**

**-George**


	7. Chapter VII: Call to Arms

**Chapter VII: Call to Arms**

He watched Lady Elissa pace from one side of the great hall to the other, a fire roaring in the hearth.

"It's been three days," she reminded the Small Council, "and Duncan Tuttle is yet to be located."

Maester Ortengryn buried his hands in his robes, his eyes fixed on Lady Elissa; there was a fear in her eyes like he had never seen before, as though she felt lost and afraid within the walls of her own home.

"Alas, this is a large castle, my lady," Maester Ortengryn reminded her, "the Ironwood is even larger." Lady Elissa stood over the fire, her hands on the mantle as though it was the only thing keeping her from collapsing. "If, as you suspect, foul play is involved, and House Whitehill _are_ responsible, they could be keeping the Castellan anywhere."

"What if they're not keeping him at all?" Ser Royland Degore chimed in with yet another one of his grim but realistic theories. "What if Tuttle is already dead, slain at the hands of Lord Gryff Whitehill." The Master-at-Arms stroked his chin as he spoke, the same way Duncan once had done. "It has been said that Lord Gryff and Roose Bolton's natural son Ramsay have spent an awful lot of time together. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the bastard's psychotic behaviour has rubbed off on young Lord Gryff."

"No," Lady Elissa denied, turning from the hearth. "Not even the Whitehills are dishonourable enough to kill a Lord in his own Castle."

"Do not underestimate the Whitehills, my lady," Maester Ortengryn suggested. "They had as much a stake in your son's murder as House Bolton did."

"Also, Tuttle was no Lord," Ser Royland reminded her. "Only a washed up old farmer."

"Ser Royland, I did not summon the Small Council to discuss formalities," she exclaimed. Maester Ortengryn looked down the table. The Small Council, smaller than ever, consisted of only him and Ser Royland. "I summoned you to share my fears."

Lady Elissa, approaching the table, placed her hands flat on the oak, glancing between the Maester and Ser Royland. "I fear we have already lost this war, and it hasn't even begun yet." She bowed her head. "After all, how can we hope to protect the people of Ironrath from enemies like House Whitehill, when we can't even protect ourselves?"

Maester Ortengryn cleared his throat. "My lady, if Duncan truly is dead, and if the Whitehill truly are responsible, should we be able to gather the evidence that proves it, we may find ourselves with an opportunity to remove every last member of House Whitehill from Ironrath until the end of time."

"My son, the Lord of Ironrath, was murdered under this very roof, in front of my own eyes, and his death remains unavenged," she reminded the council. "Do you really think that, even if we could prove that Duncan was murdered, the rest of the North would even care to listen?"

Maester Ortengryn sat forward, placing his hands on the table. He placed one of his hands on Lady Elissa's. It was as cold as Winter night. "My lady, if I may, there are those who would come to our aid should we call."

Lady Elissa seemed puzzled, as though the thought alone of House Forrester having a friend somewhere out there was enough to bewilder her. "Continue, Maester Ortengryn," she urged.

"Ashtown is but a two day ride from Ironrath," Maester Ortengryn explained. "As you know, it is the seat of House Ashwood, who are yet to bend the knee to King Joffrey and have not yet sworn fealty to Roose Bolton as their Warden of the North. In this 'War of Five Kings', House Ashwood remain neutral, and, if urged to do so, I believe would come to our aid."

The Maester heard Ser Royland sigh from the seat behind him. "There has been bad blood between House Ashwood and House Forrester for centuries; ever since Lord Gerhard Forrester broke the oath he'd made to Lord Stavros Ashwood to wed his daughter." Ser Royland turned to Maester Ortengryn. "As a Maester, I'm sure you've hear the story before."

Maester Ortengryn did recall the story. As far as he remembered, Lord Gerhard had instead married a daughter of House Manderly. She had been a pretty girl who wore her golden hair in curls. He remembered reading so in a copy of _The History of the Greater and the Lesser Houses_.

"You speak truly, Ser Royland," Maester Ortengryn agreed. "Still, the incident never led to any bloodshed between the Houses. If only the same could be said for Lord Stark after the Young Wolf broke his oaf to the 'Late Walder Frey'."

"Such does not mean that House Ashwood would ever agree to fight for us," Lady Elissa commented. "I thank you, Maester Ortengryn," she said, "but we cannot allow ourselves to spend our time relying on other Houses, when we must be taking action ourselves."

_A pity_, Maester Ortengryn thought, _as the raven to Lord Ashwood has already been sent_.

He had sent a raven to Ashtown that very morning. It carried a message pleading Lord Dagmer Ashwood to send men to Ironrath as soon as fate would allow, promising a great prize in return for his services. Such was all, for now, the Maester's secret.

He only hoped he hadn't sent the message too late.

"You speak of taking action," Ser Royland noticed, tapping his fingers against the oak table impatiently. "Do you mean to say that you have some plan, of sorts?"

"Lord Ethan is dead," Maester Ortengryn reminded the table. "As is Lord Rodrik. Lord Ryon is a captive at Whitehill, their brother Asher remains in exile across the Narrow Sea." The Maester paused. "What good is a plan without a noble lord to carry it out?"

Lady Elissa sighed, rising from her seat at the head of the table. "Ser Royland. Maester Ortengryn. There is something you both must know," she announced, her back to both men. "But first, you must promise me that what I am about to tell you shall not leave this room."

"Of course, my lady," both the Maester and Ser Royland replied simultaneously.

Lady Elissa turned to face the men on the council, an expression on her face more dire than Maester Ortengryn had ever witnessed. "My son is alive."

Maester Ortengryn felt his heart sink. "Lord Ethan?" He wondered, scarcely believing what he'd just heard. _If what she says is true_, he thought, _this game has just changed entirely_.

"But...How?" Ser Royland questioned by his side.

It was not a question Maester Ortengryn needed answering. _The North Grove_, he knew immediately. _So the myths and the legends speak truly_. _It exists_.

"All will be explained in good time," Lady Elissa assured them. "Above all, we must ensure that this secret remains between us. Lord Gryff can never know."

"Know what?" A voice called from across the hall.

Maester Ortengryn had failed to even notice Lord Gryff step through the giant oak door that led into the Great Hall. Now, he and his Master-at-Arms, Britt, were pacing down the hall, an inquisitive look on Lord Gryff's face.

"A jape, my lord," Lady Elissa lied,the fear visible in her eyes. "Nothing more."

Lord Gryff smiled. "I take great pleasure in knowing that you still find a reason to laugh in these dark and desperate ties, my lady." He took a sincere bow before Lady Elissa. "Alas, I must ask that your meeting of the minds be cut short this afternoon. There are urgent matters I wish to discuss with you, and you alone. They regard your daughter."

"My lord, I fear my council are still-"

"My lady," Ser Royland broke in, interrupting Lady Elissa. "With all due respect, I have much to do, and very little time to do it in. First and foremost, I must find my squire, Edric Snow. If you see him, tell him I have need of him. That hopeless boy is far behind in today's duties."

"Very well, Ser Royland," Lady Elissa said. Ser Royland rose, bowed, and made his way out of the hall.

Soon enough, Maester Ortengryn was following him out of the Great Hall. "I too have urgent matters to which I must attend," he lied to Lady Elissa. "I trust you'll forgive me for leaving with such haste." He fled through the oak door, turning his back on Lady Elissa.

Pacing through the Ironwood, Maester Ortengryn felt himself begin to sweat. The pieces were moving so quickly, the Maester could no longer keep up with the game and its players.

_Now, everything has changed_, he thought. _If Lord Ethan is truly alive, and if the North Grove is truly to thank for such a miracle, then perhaps there is a chance that Ironrath and its people will survive._

The Maester's pace increased. _I cannot allow that to happen_, the treacherous Maester thought.

* * *

><p>END OF CHAPTER SEVEN<p>

**What's that dastardly Maester up to?**

**Hey, guys! Hope you're all enjoying the story so far. Thanks to everyone whose left feedback, but if you're one of the few who hasn't already, you can leave a REVIEW for this story below. This really helps me to know what you guys like/don't like about the what you've seen so far and, well, helps me to write the best story for you guys, so please do it if you haven't already! I always like to hear you guys' thoughts :)**

**I'm really looking forward to you guy's seeing next week's chapter where... Well, you'll just have to wait and see! ;)**

**Happy New Year!**

**-George**


	8. Chapter VIII: Punishment

**Chapter VIII: Punishment**

"I wish to take your daughter's hand in marriage," the heir to House Whitehill declared from across the oak table, his announcement echoing through the halls of Ironrath.

Awestruck, words failed Lady Elissa. "Mira? But she is in King's Landing, a handmaiden to the future Queen-"

"A most respectful duty," Lord Gryff praised, a hint of regard in his voice, "one I would not request that she abandon just to marry a son of House Whitehill." He laid his hands flat on the oak table, as though to symbolise that he was past keeping secrets. "Although I have heard many a tale of your eldest daughter's beauty during my short time at Ironrath, I must confess it is not _her_ hand I seek."

The true meaning behind Lord Gryff's words descended upon Lady Elissa like a ton of ice.

"Talia," she uttered. She raised her hand to the pendant around her neck, feeling as though the iron chain was slowly tightening around her neck. "She is but a girl," Lady Elissa reminded him. "Why?"

Lord Gryff smirked. He took a hearty sup from the horn of ale he'd poured himself, belched, then said, "Why else than to strengthen the relationship between our Houses?"

"My lord," Lady Elissa began after taking a deep breath, "I, as much as you, would see an end to the violence between our Houses, but I fear that wedding you and my youngest daughter would simply cause even _more_ bloodshed."

Lord Gryff smirked again. He sank back in his chair and folded his arms, gazing back at Lady Elissa with what resembled a look of admiration. "Are you threatening me, Lady Elissa?"

This caught Lady Elissa off guard. "By the Gods, no, my lord," she exclaimed, leaning forward in her chair. "I do not threat," she promised. "You must forgive me if my tone suggested otherwise."

_I may have already lost one of my men to this temperamental psychopath_, Lady Elissa recalled, remembering Duncan Tuttle and his sudden absence that was yet to be explained, _I do not intend to put anyone else in danger, including myself_.

As a sign of good faith, she poured Lord Gryff enough ale to fill his horn. He raised his horn, drank, and belched again. "I only meant to warn you that there are many amongst House Forrester that hold young Talia dearly, and perhaps would not take so kindly to her being married off to a son of Whitehill who is - if you'll forgive me for saying so – almost _twice_ her age."

Lord Gryff returned to the smug look Lady Elissa had come to hate as he sat back in his chair, his gazing back into hers without a hint of movement, as though they were the eyes of a dead man. "I know it was not your intent to threaten my, Lady Elissa," he revealed, " I was simply jesting." He laughed, and Lady Elissa, relieved, laughed with him.

"If you'd intended to threaten me," he said after swallowing the last drop of ale in his horn, "perhaps you'd have mentioned your son."

Lady Elissa felt her heart sink. Immediately, she knew Lord Gryff's true meaning, but attempted to hide behind ignorance instead. "Two of sons are dead. Murdered," she reminded him. "The other, a prisoner of Ramsay Snow."

"A pity," Gryff uttered, with little sign of sincerity, "but it is your _other_ son I speak of." He leaned forward. "The exile," Lord Gryff reminded her.

"Asher Forrester was branded a traitor, and was exiled across the Narrow Sea for his crimes against his House," Lady Elissa recalled, as much as it pained to speak of her second-born son.

"So, imagine my confusion when the Queen's spies spotted him seeking passage to Westeros," Lord Gryff revealed, his smug expression growing still. "What's even more curios, is that young Asher was not alone," Lord Gryff continued. "In his company, the Queen's- or should I say, _The Spider's_- spies also spotted a Knight of House Forrester. Your brother, Malcolm Branfield."

Words escaped Lady Elissa at that moment. There was nothing; no possible explanation or excuse to conjure up that Lord Gryff would possible believe. The defeated look on her face had already betrayed her. She was defeated.

Lord Gryff laughed once more. "You Forresters truly are a brave bunch, aren't you?" He rose from his seat and leaned across the table, placing himself mere inches from Lady Elissa. So close that she could feel his icy breath on her face. "Now I see where your son got it from," he said. "It most certainly was not from his father. You see, Ser Gregor, your husband, he truly died a coward's death," he continued, Lady Elissa's rage growing. "With his last words, the cowering mule begged that his death be painless." He paused. "I should know. I was the one who delivered the final blow. And I can assure you," Gryff said, his voice becoming a whisper, "his death was _far_ from painless."

Lady Elissa, the rage fuelling inside her, was ready to rise from her seat and strangle the heir to House Whitehill until he was purple in the face, but the echo of the oak doors to the great hall slamming shut were what kept her seated. Instead, she simply stared back into the dead eyes of Lord Gryff, silently promising herself that, when the day came, she would be the one to kill him.

"My lord," spoke the familiar voice of Britt, Lord Gryff''s man-at-arms. "I beg that you forgive my interruption, but an urgent matter requires your immediate attention." She heard the clanking and rattling of Britt's chainmail as he marched down the great hall with great haste. "It appears the Forresters have a traitor in their midst."

That was when Lady Elissa turned to see the man-at-arms dragging a man clad in red robes down the great hall, his pale hands clasping the shrieking man's neck. "Maester Ortengryn?" She exclaimed, recognising the man in red robes. She turned back to Lord Gryff. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded to know.

"We found him creeping through the Ironwood after dark," Britt explained, his hands clasped so tightly around the Maester's neck that he was turning a shade of purple. "We believe he was attempting to flee the city."

"Another deserter," Lord Gryff stated before letting out a false and hollow sigh. "Alas, these are dark times, my lady," he said, turning to Lady Elissa. "You cannot expect to make it through them without a few straying from the herd." He licked his lips. "Although, it cannot be easy to see such a trusted member of your House – your own _Maester_ – turn your back on you, can it?"

"I'm no deserter!" Maester Ortengryn shrieked, the hand around his neck dampening his voice. "My lady," he said, speaking directly to Lady Elissa, "you must understand, I was out there for a good reason! I'm trying to save this House!"

"You know the price for desertion," Lord Gryff told Lady Elissa, who remained frozen in her seat.

"My lady, please!" Maester Ortengryn begged. "I am no traitor!"

"My lord, I beg that you put an end to this," Lady Elissa implored Lord Gryff. "This man is a respected member of House Forrester. He should stand trial for his crimes."

For a moment, Lord Gryff seemed to almost consider her suggestion. But when the heir of House Whitehill wielded an iron axe from his sheath, the same one he'd had forged here in Ironrath, she knew Lord Gryff had already reached his decision. "Hold him down," he ordered Britt in a raspy voice that chilled the room.

In one fell swoop, Britt threw Maester Ortengryn over the oak table, where he held him there flat on his chest.

Lady Elissa was about to rise from her seat, but Lord Gryff gestured her with his pale hand for her to remain seated. She did as she was told.

Britt, his brute strength overpowering the wise but frail Maester, forced Ortengryn to lay out his left arm across the table. He laughed as the Maester wailed, the sound echoing down the hall.

"I will not tolerate disloyalty of this kind," Lord Gryff announced, tightening his grip on his axe. "You will answer for your betrayal in flesh and blood."

As he lay on the oak table before her, Maester Ortengryn turned to face Lady Elissa, unable to watch the punishment about to follow. "I will not scream," he told her, his voice trembling as he wept. "I promise you, my lady, I will not scream." He shut his eyes.

Lady Elissa, frozen in her seat, tried to reassure the Maester, but no words left her when she opened her mouth to speak.

She watched as Lord Gryff raised the axe high in the air, then threw it down with all his might.

The axe sliced through the Maester's fingers, then struck the oak table with enough force to splinter the wood.

Breaking his promise, Maester Ortengryn screamed. As did Lady Elissa.

Lord Gryff, however, only laughed as he wiped the blood from his iron axe.

* * *

><p>END OF CHAPTER EIGHT<p>

**Sorry it's been so long, guys. It's been a crazy past few weeks. But, 'Iron from Ice' is back and, hopefully, you enjoyed this new (long-awaited) chapter.**

**Once again, thanks everyone who's FOLLOWED/FAVORITED the story so far, and even bigger thanks to those who have left REVIEWS of the story. Some of you also had some questions in the REVIEWS you left, which I'll try and answer below!**

**What a few of you seem to be wondering is; what's going to happen to this Fan-Fic once Telltale Games start releasing new episodes?**

**The answer is: nothing.**

**As much as I love Telltale's work, and as excited as I am to play the next episode, this story I'm writing, although it's based in the same world, is completely different and (I hope!) is headed in a very different direction.**

**So, basically what I'm saying is that the only reason I'd stop writing is if you guys stopped reading. At the end of the day, it's because of you guys that I'm trying so hard to put together this story. I want you to read it and enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

**So carry on leaving your REVIEWS below, and I'll be getting started on the next chapter as soon as possible!**

**I can't wait for you guys to see the next chapter. It's gonna be a doozy!**

**Take care, guys.**

**-George**


	9. Chapter IX: The Three Visitors

**Chapter IX: The Three Visitors**

She was awakened by the slam of the door to her bedchamber.

Fearing that her visitor in the night was none other than Lord Gryff Whitehill himself, Talia Forrester sat up from her bed, clutching the silk sheets like armour that would protect against anything.

Alas, it was not the Heir of House Whitehill that stood waiting for her in her doorway, but something equally as terrifying.

The dark shape was of a feeble size. Even so, it cast a large shadow in the torchlight.

"You frightened me," she said as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Slowly, the shape became more visible to Talia in the dark. She recognised the grey and brown colour pallet of House Forrester, and took him to be one of the House's man-at-arms. She could not, however, recognise the man himself, as his face was concealed under an iron helm. He also wore iron gauntlets, chainmail and a pair of iron boots.

As small as he was, Talia was surprised the man-at-arms had not been crushed under the weight of his armour. Instead, he simply stood at the end of her bedchamber, gazing at the girl hiding under her bedsheets.

She could hear him breathing under his helm.

"Aren't you a little short to be a soldier?" She asked.

That was when the man-at-arms removed his helm and shook his head, his brown hair fluttering like that of a gallant Knight in a fairy tale. "Then thank the Gods I'm not a soldier," he replied in a voice Talia could not mistake as belonging to anyone other than her own dear brother.

"Ethan!" She exclaimed, praising each of the Seven Gods as her brother approached her bedchamber, removing his helm and his gauntlets and throwing them aside as he did.

He took a seat by her side on the bed, his chainmail rattling with every slight movement. "I've missed you," Talia whispered as he leaned in, his hands on hers, and kissed her lightly on the lips.

He took each of her hands and planted soft kisses on them over and over again, whispering apologies as he did so. "I beg you to forgive me, sweet sister," he whispered. "You must know that I would come here every night if I could."

Talia slowly pulled away. "You shouldn't even be here _now_," she assured him. "If Lord Gryff were to ever catch you up here-"

"I've heard the stories from Mother," Ethan assured her. "I don't care what kind of torture the lord would put me through if he caught me, it would be worth it just to see your face," he said as he caressed her cheeks with his soft, warms hands.

"Then perhaps Mother has been sparing the gory details from these stories she'd told you," Talia replied, her voice trembling with fear. "Yesterday, Lord Gryff mutilated the Maester for simply entering the Ironwood. Mother even believes that he even _murdered _Duncan Tuttle."

A look of sorrow befell Ethan. He removed his hands from her cheeks, and turned away. "That... cannot be true," he uttered. She could feel the pain in his voice. "Duncan is strong."

"He is," Talia reassured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But the Whitehills are stronger."

Ethan turned to face her, an enraged look on his face. "Only because there is _nothing_ they won't do." Ethan paused. "Nothing," he repeated. "Whether that be murdering a lord in his own hall, or kidnapping a defenceless young child."

_Poor Ryon_, she thought. She had prayed for the safety of her little brother to the Seven every night. She only hoped that her prayers were being answered. "What the Whitehills have done, they've done to protect their family," she told Ethan. "If you're going to be lord, you have to ask yourself: is there anything you wouldn't do to protect your family?" She asked. A silence followed, and then she added, "Is there anything you wouldn't do to protect me?"

He gazed back at her. "Nothing in the world," he answered before embracing Talia.

They shared a kiss more passionate than any they'd ever shared before. Talia massaged Ethan's tongue with hers as he slowly wrapped his arms around her. After what felt like a lifetime in each other's arms, Ethan pulled away and began to remove his chainmail, followed by the torn and dirtied tunic he wore underneath.

Removing his tunic exposed Ethan's chest. He had always been a particularly skinny lad, but those days and nights down in his dungeon cell had clearly taken a toll on Ethan's body, as his torso had been reduced to nothing but skin and bone. He climbed on top of her, kissing her lips then dipping to kiss her neck, making Talia moan with pleasure. He kissed her chest as he slowly unbuttoned her flower-patterned gown.

Talia was praying that the moment would never end, when she heard the sound of creaking wood, followed by approaching footsteps echoing through the corridors, and, eventually, a laugh so chilling it sent goose prickles up her arms.

"He's coming," Talia uttered, forcing Ethan off her as she sat up from the bed. "He's coming!" She repeated, with twice as much urgency. "You have to hide!" she urged her brother a she buttoned her gown.

"I shouldn't," Ethan replied as he stepped off the bed. "I should stay, in case he tries to hurt you."

"I can take care of myself," Talia assured him as she pointed him to a nearby by oak wardrobe. "Quickly!" She hastened.

Ethan hesitated. He looked at his sister, then to the bedchamber door, then to the wardrobe. The oak doors creaked as Ethan stepped into the wardrobe and concealed himself in side.

Seconds later, the door to Talia's bedchamber was opened for the second time that night.

This time, however, Talia knew the identity of her visitor.

"Lord Gryff," she uttered nervously, clutching her bedsheets. "What brings you here to my bedchamber at this time of night?" She asked, knowing the answer. "Are you lost?"

"Far from it, my lady," the heir to House Whitehill replied, a horn of ale in his hand. He approached Talia's bed with the clumsy walk of a drunk man. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

"Forgive me, my lord," Talia said as Lord Gryff drank, "but it is very late, and a lady needs her rest. Perhaps we should both turn in and continue this conversation in the morning?"

Lord Gryff smiled, finished off his horn of ale, then threw it aside. "My lady," he began as he unlaced his breeches. "I'm afraid _this_ cannot wait until-" A loud clanging interrupted him, and Lord Gryff's smile faded.

Talia's heart sank. From the floor, Lord Gryff lifted up the iron helm he'd almost tripped over.

_The helm_, Talia thought, panicking. _He forgot the helm_.

"Hmm," Lord Gryff murmured, inspecting the helm. "What do you suppose this is?" he asked, lifting the helm to show Talia, who feigned ignorance.

"I... I don't know, my lord," Talia lied, the anxiety audible in her tone of voice. "It must belong to one of the guards," she fancied, the words escaping her as she tried to create a believable story in her own head. "Yes, yes," she continued, "infact, one of them came by not long ago to check on me. He must have left his helm behind. We were talking, you see."

Lord Gryff's smile returned. Talia noticed him spot the chainmail and the gauntlets, as well as Ethan's tunic, all left in a pile on the floor. "_Talking_?" There was a pause. "Or _fucking_?"

Lord Gryff paced towards her bed, and it wasn't long before his hand was clasped around her neck, his grip tightening with every seconds. "My lord, I beg you-" she tried to beg him to stop, but no words left her. When her vision became blurred, she closed her eyes. She was certain she had drawn her last breath, when Talia heard a sound.

It was the sound of steel piercing chainmail and flesh.

Opening her eyes, Talia was greeted by the sight of a steel blade protruding through Lord Gryff's tummy. The blood of the Heir of House Whitehill trickled down the blade. Even now, Lord Gryff gazed at Talia. He wore a disturbing combination of a smirk and a scowl on his face as, with his dying breath, he let out an incomprehensible gargle.

"Move," a voice warned form behind Lord Gryff.

Talia took its advice, leaping out of bed. That's when Ethan pulled his sword from Lord Gryff's tummy, spattering blood across his bare chest. Lord Gryff landed with a thud on Talia's bed, right where she had been laying, and quickly began to leak blood all over her sheets.

As she gasped for air, her hand soothing her bruised neck, she felt Ethan's arm around her. Realising she was still shaking, she wrapped herself around her brother, never more grateful to be alive with him there.

Neither of the two could have said how long they'd spent looking over Lord Gryff's corpse as it lay sprung over Talia's bed. They did not move. They did not speak. They did not so much as whisper. They simply stood, wondering what this meant for Ironrath and its people. Wondering if they'd just doomed them all.

"It'll be okay, Ethan," Talia reassured him, breaking the silence. "I know it will."

Ethan remained silent. Instead, he just nodded, his chest still covered in Gryff's blood.

"By the Gods," a familiar voice cursed from Talia's doorway.

The third visitor to Talia's bedchamber that night was one she recognised instantly, even though she hadn't seen him in almost as many years as her youngest brother, Ryon, has been alive.

"Asher?" Ethan called in a voice of disbelief. "You've come back."

"Aye," Asher replied. "And not a moment too soon, it appears."

* * *

><p>END OF CHAPTER NINE.<p>

**Whaaat? Two chapters in two days? Let's just say it's my way of making it up to you guys after a month long hiatus!**

**Anyway, what did you guys think of this chapter? Things are really going to start heating up in Ironrath now, so I hope you're all excited to see what happens next!**

**As always, you can FOLLOW/FAVORITE if you haven't already, and be sure to also leave a REVIEW below. The more REVIEWS, the sooner the next chapter goes up!**

**Thanks as always for reading, and be sure to tune in next time, as the Forrester siblings work together to save Ironrath from war!**

**See you then!**

**-George**


	10. Chapter X: The Second Son

**Chapter X: The Second Son**

In the distance, a Direwolf howled as the bitter cold of midnight descended upon the Ironwood.

"How much further must we go, brother?" Ethan whined from a few feet behind, sounding breathless after almost an hour long trek through the Ironwood.

Asher Forrester groaned, his body crying in pain against the weight he carried over his shoulders. "Stop complaining," he urged his younger brother. "_You're_ not the one carrying two a hundred pound corpse over your shoulders." He sighed. "By the Gods, how many Blueberry tarts did Lord Gryff gobble up at the last feast to make him so heavy?"

"His muscle is what makes him heavy, Asher," Ethan assured him. "Gryff Whitehill was a strong man. He is said to have wrestled with bears and wolves armed only with his two hands," Ethan claimed, but Asher was not as convinced. The Lord of House Whitehill did not seem so strong now that his body rested limply over Asher's shoulders.

"If he was as strong as you say, then you did well to defeat him," Asher told him, his voice bearing a hint of respect, which seemed to take Ethan by surprise, so much so that the boy paused in his tracks. Asher turned to face him, even though the man now felt as though he was being crushed under the weight over his shoulders.

"_Defeat_ him?" Ethan echoed, a confused expression on his face. "I told you back in Talia's bedchamber, I _murdered_ this man. I crept up behind him and stabbed him in the heart." Ethan bowed his head. Ashamed, he couldn't look his brother in the eyes. "I used a coward's tactic. I'm no warrior like you," Ethan confessed. "I don't deserve to be called 'Ethan the Brave'."

Asher gazed upon his brother, noticing for the first time the man that he had become.

Carefully, he lowered the body from over his shoulders down to the ground beneath their feet. Lord Gryff's body was limp and lifeless, his face pale as moonlight. Then, Asher returned his gaze to Ethan. Slowly, he approached his brother before reaching out and embracing Ethan in a hug.

"You risked your life to save your sister without hesitation," Asher reminded him, feeling his brother's cold breath against his breastplate. "You are the bravest man in the whole of Ironrath, and I am proud to have you as a brother."

When Asher stepped back, he saw his brother smile. "Thank you, Asher," Ethan said warmly. "I'm glad you're back home. Truly," he added. "We could use more friendly faces around here."

"By the sound of it, you could use more _Forresters_," Asher said. Suddenly, his expression turned to one of sorrow. "I'm so sorry about Father," he told Ethan, sincerely. "We may have had our differences, Father and I, but he was a great man and a noble warrior. Nobody can take that away from him." _Not even the Whitehills_, he continued in his own head, _and one day, they'll pay in blood for their actions_.

"You should have been there," Ethan fired back at him, a hint of contempt in his voice. "You should have been there, at the Twins, fighting alongside Father and Rodrik when they needed you most." Ethan's voice began to tremble, as did he himself. "Now, they're both dead..."

Asher placed a firm hand on his brother's shoulder. "We don't know that for sure," he reminded his brother. "As we sailed back to Westeros, Malcolm told me that Rodrik's body was never recovered from the slaughter at the Twins. Neither was Norren's, for that matter. They may both still be out there, perhaps with even more Forrester men that we believed dead."

Ethan nodded. "Perhaps," he uttered. "Either way, the Whitehills _will_ pay for their crimes."

"Aye," Asher agreed. "One murder at a time though, aye, brother?" He mocked, his stone cold expression turning into a smile. "Speaking of which," he said, moving swiftly on to the dead Whitehill lying between them. "Perhaps it's time we buried our Lordship," he suggested as he reached out with his hand towards Ethan. "Hand me the shovel would you, brother?"

* * *

><p>It took them an hour to bury Gryff Whitehill's body deep enough under the Ironwood that Asher could be confident the young lord would never be found. Before shovelling the first mound of dirt onto the corpse, Ethan grabbed Gryff's sword, deciding he the Lord of Whitehill would have to do without in in whatever afterlife awaited him.<p>

Secretly, Asher wondered whether Duncan Tuttle might also have been buried somewhere nearby. He did not, however, share these thoughts with Ethan.

Although the deaths of his father and the suspected deaths of Rodrik, Norren and many other Forrester men had come as a shock to Asher upon his arrival at Ironrath, it had been the death of Duncan that had saddened Asher the most. The former Castellan had been like a father to Asher. Duncan had come to his defence when Asher had been branded a traitor after falling in love with Gwyn Whitehill, daughter of Lord Ludd Whitehill. He may even have been the reason the second son of House Forrester avoided a death sentence, and was offered the option of exile instead.

Another hour passed, and although their path had been blinded by the seemingly endless darkness of that autumn night, Asher and Ethan finally emerged from the Ironwood, facing the castle of Ironrath, with Gryff Whitehill now nothing more than a buried secret that was far behind them.

Or so they thought.

"So, what now?" Ethan finally asked, turning his attention to his elder brother. It was an inevitable question, and one Asher had been awaiting for the entirety of their hour journey back to Ironrath.

"Now," he began, "you go back to your sister," he instructed his brother. "She'll be frightened, and the last thing she needs right now is to be alone." He paused, stroking his chin as his eyes moved between the different sections of the castle. "Not to mention, as far as I'm aware, you're _supposed _to be dead. The last thing we need is for you to go wandering around the hallways of Ironrath like a dead man walking, frightening the servants and drawing necessary attention to us."

Ethan nodded. "Agreed." A stern expression descended upon his face. "Listen, Asher, about me and Talia," he began, his trembling voice making a return, "There's something I think you should-"

"I don't want to hear it," Asher interrupted, silencing Ethan. "Frankly, it's none of my business anyway," he added. "I've always suspected there was something between you and Talia. Whether it's purely platonic, I couldn't say, and I don't want to know." There was a pause, but Ethan remained silent. "As long as you two are happy, that's all I care about."

Ethan nodded again, reading his brother loud and clear. Once the moment had passed, he asked the next inevitable question, "What about you?" What are you going to do?"

"Well," he began, "as of right now, you, Talia and Malcolm are the only people in Ironrath that are aware of my presence here, and, for now, I'd prefer it to stay that way," Asher decided out loud. "The last thing we need right now is for the Whitehills to suspect some kind of uprising. Revealing myself would just get people killed." He turned his gaze from Ironrath to his brother. "I don't suppose there's any place around here an exiled son might be able to lay low for a while?" He asked with a lopsided grin on his face.

Though the question had been, to Ethan's understanding, rhetorical, he believed he knew just the place. "The Dungeon" he blurted out almost too loudly. "Duncan hid me in a cell in the dungeon underneath Ironrath for weeks before you arrived, and not a single guard, Forrester nor Whitehill, so much as set foot down there that entire time." Ethan stuttered. He seemed to like the idea of having his long lost brother now residing only a couple of floors beneath him. "It's not the most comfortable of places to spend the night, and I can't promise you'll like the smell, but-"

"I'm sure it will suffice," Asher said. Paying less attention to his brother, Asher's focus had been drawn to a couple of shadows emerging from the courtyard. "Ethan," he called with a whisper before gesturing his brother with a point of his finger to the two men-at-arms, clad in iron armour, that stood, their hands on their swords, guarding the rear entrance to Ironrath. The larger of the two men was grasping a banner almost twice his size.

In the torchlight, Asher, with a squint of his eyes, recognised the sigil the banner displayed: a row of hills sitting under a four-pointed star, both coloured in white, against a backdrop of blue.

The sigil of House Whitehill.

"Seven Hells," Asher cursed. "These men are no friends of ours," he revealed to Ethan, whose disappointment was just as bitter.

Ethan turned to his brother. "Are we in trouble?" He asked in a panic.

"No," Asher dismissed, reassuring Ethan. "No, we're not in trouble. At least, not yet." Asher continued to gaze at the two men-at-arms. When he realised that the larger of the two men was _returning_ his gaze, however, Asher felt his heart sink.

"Oi! You!" The man-at-arms barked from the courtyard, about thirty feet from where Asher and Ethan stood, where they had hoped the shade of the trees would hide them. "Get over here!"

"Okay, _now_ we're in trouble," Asher announced, stating the obvious.

The two men-at-arms were approaching them now. The sound of iron scraping iron echoes across the courtyard as they drew their swords from their sheaths.

Ethan and Asher remained still, as though hoping they would disappear back into the shadows.

Such was not the case, and the two men-at-arms continued their approach, now mere meters from them, swords in their hands.

As if to frighten the two Whitehill soldier, Asher drew his own longsword, the sound of Valyrian Steel ringing out as he did so. A sound that was impossible to mistake.

"Draw your sword," Asher advised his brother as the two soldiers advanced.

Ethan offered him a look of desperate confusion. "What?" He asked, his voice trembling once more.

"You want to make the Whitehills pay for what they've done to our family?" Asher asked his brother as his grip on his own sword tightened. "Now's your chance."

Asher smiled. "It's time to take back Ironrath."

* * *

><p>END OF CHAPTER TEN.<p>

**Sorry about the delay in posting this chapter guys, but I hope the wait was worth it!**

**By now, the latest episode in Telltale's video game series has been released, but I hope that won't stop you guys from reading. Between Ethan being alive thanks to the North Grove, and Asher coming home early to kick some Whitehill butt, this story is obviously very different to what Telltale are telling in their episodic series, so I hope you guys will stick around, especially since I still have so much cool stuff planned for this story; stuff that I've been planning for a while and can't wait to share with you guys!**

**If you haven't already (or even if you have, for that matter!) please leave a REVIEW below, as I always find it helpful to hear people's thoughts on the story, and it really gives me the motivation I need to get writing!**

**The next chapter is a pretty big on, so it's going to take some time, but hopefully it'll be worth it. The Battle of Ironrath has begun, and to be able to save it, Ethan is going to have to make a tough decision.**

**-George**


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